


The Ache of the Ocean

by elfin (crazylittleelf)



Category: Fringe
Genre: Continuation, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-19
Updated: 2012-11-19
Packaged: 2017-11-19 01:46:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/567675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crazylittleelf/pseuds/elfin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Waking up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Ache of the Ocean

**Author's Note:**

  * For [monanotlisa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/monanotlisa/gifts), [rainer76](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainer76/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Walk a trail (with no end in sight)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/563466) by [monanotlisa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/monanotlisa/pseuds/monanotlisa). 
  * Inspired by [A partition of Comfort.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/523522) by [rainer76](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainer76/pseuds/rainer76). 



> Continuation of a continuation. Both excellent stories should be read first.

Lincoln wakes first, disoriented, the odd angles of Peter's bedroom seeming dream-like for long moments. The room's gotten overly-warm overnight and Peter's a fever-hot weight against Lincoln's chest, legs pinned, the other man's hand curled around Lincoln's bicep. _Possessive_ , Lincoln thinks, then amends that to something closer to desperation. Peter's forehead is creased, frowning in his sleep, breath puffing against Lincoln's neck harshly.

Lincoln frees one hand from under the blankets tangled at his side, slides up Peter's arm, feels the muscles twitching under hot skin. His other hand is caught under pillows, trapped under Peter's shoulder, tingly with pins and needles when he lifts it to stroke at the back of Peter's neck. Peter's eyes snap open, stare unseeing, his body tight as a wire.

Lincoln stills his hands and keeps his voice soft when he says, "Peter." He doesn't buy the department's wary distrust of the man, sees no threat in Peter's presence in their world. Lincoln likes to think he's no fool when it comes to his own safety, though, and he gets the feeling that Peter isn't exactly present at the moment. Peter's body slowly unclenches, a long deliberate breath leaves him nearly relaxed. Peter's eyes dart to Lincoln's, wide at first, then lids lowering to half-mast, a lazy smile twitching over his lips. It would be convincing if Lincoln couldn't feel Peter's heart pounding against his chest.

Peter shifts one leg, pressing between Lincoln's and the smile widens, eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that's genuine, and genuinely amused.

"And good morning to you, too."

Lincoln groans and arches into the pressure, hands grasping at Peter, pulling him closer. Peter slants his mouth expertly, and Lincoln opens under him, under the heat and pressure, dizzy from the rapid shift from pleasantly sleepy to aching arousal. Peter laughs into his mouth, low and dirty, and the sounds finds something in Lincoln's chest, sets it ablaze. He bites at Peter's lips, hard enough to bring him up short.

Lincoln tightens his hand on the back of Peter's neck. "Roll over."

Peter's eyes narrow, tongue flicking over the tiny indentations Lincoln's teeth left behind. Lincoln waits - he can be patient, can lie still and watch the flicker of emotion over Peter's face. He watches the worried furrow between between Peter's eyes soften, watches the wariness bleed away.

Peter slips to his side, rolls to his back, eyes never leaving Lincoln's. Lincoln settles over Peter's body, weight on his knees, one hand resting low on his chest, just below his sternum. He braces his other hand next to Peter's head, leans over him. His eyes drift down to Peter's mouth, the bow of his lips. "You liked yesterday. Liked being in control."

Peter's head tilts a little against the pillow. "I didn't notice that you were complaining."

Lincoln smiles a little at that, leans closer, noses along Peter's jaw. He smells sleep-warm and musky, stale sweat that's not altogether unpleasant. Lincoln kisses the soft skin just under the hinge of Peter's jaw, feels the muscles twitch in response.

"No complaints, it's just time for something different."

"A little reciprocity?"

Lincoln grins and opens his mouth against Peter's neck, teeth scraping against skin, tongue tasting skin. Peter's breathing hitches, a low sound rumbles in his chest. Lincoln raises his head, lowers his hips. Peter's eyes flutter shut when Lincoln grinds down against him. "I could go for that."

He dips his head to lick the hollow of Peter's throat, hums approval when Peter's hands come up around him, stroking along his sides, his spine. Lincoln shifts his weight, traps their cocks between the sweat-slick planes of their stomachs, groaning when Peter plants one foot on the bed, giving him leverage to push into each roll of their hips. Peter tugs at his hair, pulls until Lincoln lifts his head enough for Peter to catch his lips, holds him still while Peter kisses him.

When they break apart, gasping, panting, Lincoln buries his face in Peter's neck, thinks about rubbing against Peter until they're undone by the friction. Peter's hands tighten on his hips, undoing the complacency that has Lincoln rutting against him.

Lincoln raises to his knees, hands slipping over the skin of Peter's arms to pin his wrists over his head. The breath Peter huffs out is surprised, his eyes wide and brilliant blue, comically shocked, and Lincoln can't help but grin in response. The laughter that bubbles up in his chest breaks the frown that was beginning to form on Peter's face, replaces it with a grudging smile. Lincoln lowers his head to lick at Peter's mouth, feel his smile widening.

"Ass," Peter mutters.

Lincoln sucks Peter's lower lip into his mouth then asks, "Is that a request?"

"It's not a refusal."

Lincoln sits back on his knees, weight resting over Peter's waist. He skates the tips of his fingers down Peter's arms, barely touching. He retraces the same path, dragging the blunt edges of his fingernails over Peter's skin, then back down, and Peter shivers. He runs his hands over Peter's chest, over the smooth planes of muscle, the tight skin of his nipples. Peter's eyes flutter shut when Lincoln pinches him, and he groans when Lincoln licks him, teasing the peaked skin with his tongue.

Lincoln works his way down Peter's chest, down his stomach to where his cock is flushed and heavy against his pale skin. He brushes his lips lightly, mouthing the head of Peter's cock, nosing at his stomach until he's all Lincoln can smell, all he can taste. Peter chokes out his name and when Lincoln looks up, Peter's still got his hands over his head, fists twisted in the sheets.

Lincoln gropes at the sidetable for the lube, slicks his dick up and strokes himself, watches Peter's chest rise and fall with each breath. He shuffles closer, one hand braced on Peter's hip, the other curling slick fingers around Peter's cock. Lincoln's thumb swipes at the wetness at the tip. Lincoln rocks his hips forward, the head of his cock rubbing over Peter's shaft, rubbing against the heat of him. He closes his fingers around both of them, holds them together as they both groan. Lincoln tightens his grip, pulls short and fast, and feels Peter twitch and pulse as he comes.

Lincoln lets Peters softening cock slip from his fingers, tugs at his aching dick, fingers pulling from root to tip, twisting around the head. Peter moves now, props himself up on one elbow, swipes his fingers through the mess on his stomach. He closes his sticky-slick hand over Lincoln's, and Lincoln moans, strangled and broken, breath catching in his throat. Peter's thumb presses against the underside of Lincoln's cock, right where the head flares from the shaft, presses and holds until Lincoln shudders and shouts, spilling on Peter's hand. Lincoln lets gravity pull him down, sprawling on Peter, too warm and sated for anything else.

Peter nuzzles at Lincoln's cheek, at the corner of his mouth. He brings his hand up to scratch at his nose, then frowns and wipes it on Lincoln's shoulder.

"Ug." Lincoln bats at him lazily, then yawns. "Shower?"

"If we go out to breakfast, will you let me talk to the waitress?" Peter's tone is mild, expression carefully guarded.

Lincoln presses his lips to Peter's neck. "Will you behave?"

"At breakfast? Yes." His lips are slick, warm when he kisses Lincoln, tongue darting into his mouth. Lincoln can feel Peter's grin against his lips. "No guarantees about later."


End file.
